We had crossed the Atlantic.
Two months of sunburn, storms, and silence. I kept the Ecstasy pointed west while James manned the sails, always humming, always cheerful. He’d become a brother to me. I taught him knots and navigation; he taught me how to laugh again.
We reached the island of Saint Vincent — though the locals called it something else now. Names change. People vanish. But the sea remembers everything.
The place was wild. A port like old Tortuga, swarming with drunk merchants, wandering mercenaries, and enough black-market goods to arm a nation. It was perfect.
We docked and hit the tavern, downing enough rum to sink the ship. That’s when she walked in.
A girl — no, a shadow. Black cloak. Ebony skin. Ivory bow strapped to her back.
She sat near us without a word.
I offered her a drink.
She nodded.
By the third bottle, she was crying.
“My father is dead,” she said, voice like falling ash. “They said he didn’t work hard enough. Tried to take me away. I killed three of them.”
I blinked. “You… killed them?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I said.
She looked up, startled. “You think so?”
“They were slavers, weren’t they?”
She nodded.
I raised my bottle. “To freedom, then.”
That was the last thing I remembered.
I woke up in my bunk, the soft sway of the ship below me. My head throbbed, and my mouth felt like it had been sandpapered. I turned, groaning.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed. Her hood was off. Her pointed ears glinted in the morning light.
“Elf,” I whispered.
She didn’t flinch. “Half. My mother was a princess. My father, a slave.”
“And your name?”
“Darksilver.”
I sat up, but she stayed seated. “You’re not afraid of me?”
“You saved me,” she said. “Or… kept me drunk long enough to forget.”
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“Fair.”
She eyed my hands. “You’re not human, are you?”
I looked down at my webbed fingers. “Not entirely.”
“And the gills?”
“Between the ribs.”
She reached out, brushed her fingers against my side. I flinched.
“That explains why you can stay underwater for hours,” she muttered.
“Explains a lot of things,” I said.
She looked at me, her eyes softer now. “What are you?”
“I’m Sanrod Bricada. I’m a runaway. I’m a pirate. And I’m building a crew.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want me on it?”
I smirked. “Unless you’d rather go back to the slavers.”
She scoffed. “Fine. But I get a bunk and a bow rack.”
“Done.”
By midday, we had two new recruits — twins named Bob and Mathew. Street rats. Raised in brothels, hardened on merchant ships, and bored out of their minds. They carried twin swords and bad attitudes. But they could fight.
Together, we raided six stores across the island. The twins were ruthless — killed guards like it was sport. I hated the bloodshed but needed the weapons. We gathered powder, blades, wine, food, fabric, and whatever gold we could stuff into barrels.
The island didn’t forget us.
So we ran.
We sailed south, barely avoiding patrols.
Eventually, we reached a small island known for boat refits. They called it Mirow.
The people there were craftsmen — the kind that made ships that could survive hell.
I offered them 200 gold and a smile.
In return, they gave Ecstasy a rebirth.
They stripped her to her frame, replaced her hull with charcoal-reinforced planks, painted her crimson red, lacquered her deck with waterproof wax, and laced her sails with black-and-red patterns. Even the name — Ecstasy — was painted anew in green across her stern.
Then they did something more.
They replaced every rope with fibers from a far-off land — ropes that couldn’t burn, couldn’t snap.
Then they poured a strange liquid across the hull.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A curse breaker,” one of them said. “And a fire shield.”
I offered more gold. They refused it.
“You gave us a masterpiece,” their elder said. “She deserves to live.”
With the refit done, Ecstasy was reborn: faster, sleeker, and stronger than ever. We had a crew now.
- James: First mate.
- Darksilver: Second mate and master archer.
- Bob and Mathew: Our blades — we called them the “War Lords,” half-jokingly.
- Eline: A mercenary girl James picked up after a tavern brawl. Deadlier than she looked.
We sailed for weeks, trading stolen goods for better weapons, smuggling between islands, sinking slaver ships when we found them.
Word spread.
They called us demons.
Said our ship bled fire.
Said our captain was part sea monster.
I didn’t care.
Until they came for us.
It started with three schooners. Fast, armed, and full of mercenaries. They chased us at dawn.
We outran them easily — Ecstasy could make 30 knots in good wind, while their ships barely scraped 20. But one schooner got close. Crossbows whistled through the air.
Darksilver stood at the stern, bow drawn.
She loosed a fire arrow. The leading schooner caught flame.
It screamed smoke.
The rest slowed.
Then came the trap — a white-flagged boat approached us.
We paused.
Too long.
Thirty men stood from the deck and raised crossbows.
“Down!” I shouted, as bolts rained across our ship.
None hit us — luck or fate.
I was done playing fair.
I dropped everything and dove into the sea.
Underwater, I felt alive.
My gills pulsed. My heart slowed.
I swam like a bullet beneath the white-flag ship, emerging behind it, silent as a ghost. I grabbed the rudder man by the neck and snapped it.
Cut the mainsheet.
Slashed the sails.
Then I jumped over the side, climbed the railing, and began the massacre.
Eleven men fell before they knew what hit them. Darksilver fired three arrows from afar — perfect shots, clean kills.
Six men remained.
They fled.
I dove again.
This time, I aimed for their flagship.
The Peacemaker.
It was massive, elegant, deadly.
I stabbed its hull underwater — five times.
Then I climbed aboard.
Three swings brought down the mainmast.
Steel clanged against steel.
I fought like fire. They fought like mud.
Sixty men dead. Dozens wounded.
Before I leapt into the sea again, I turned back.
A girl — blonde, noble-looking, sword in hand — stood on deck.
She watched me go.
Eyes wide.
Expression unreadable.
I didn’t know her name.
Not yet.
But I would.
And soon.